Ambient
by SSBB.Swords
Summary: Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
1. Ante Meridiem

_**Author's Notes:**__ Inspired by the writing style of Futago no Seishi._

_Another experiment. I never write in present-tense. It's painful, so here goes nothing._

_**Warnings: **__Yaoi, slash, shounen-ai, etc. Adult themes such as substance abuse and sex (albeit not explicit). Weird writing style. Un-beta'd._

_**Pairing(s): **__Ike/Marth._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary:**__ Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Ambient

By SSBBSwords

* * *

He is in bed by 10:13 PM and the curtains cast an annoying glow into his room from the streetlamps outside.

By 11:36 PM, he is rolling over with a frustrated sigh. His mind races with the elation of evading sleep. He fails to share the sentiment.

12:09 AM finds him staring blandly at a blank Word document, complete with blinking cursor.

At 12:55 AM, he sits in the most defeated manner at the bar counter wondering just how much brandy he needs to lose the unformed thoughts in his head.

1:45 AM and he is back in his own kitchen, reaching for some nondescript wine. He doesn't remember when he opened the bottle but it certainly seems apt to resolve the situation. Kind of weird that he didn't finish it off the first time.

He doesn't know when he drifts off but becomes slowly re-aware of his surroundings. He sees that the clock above his sink reads 4:3-_something-or-other_ and because it is still dark out, he mutters a curse.

* * *

He orders whiskey the night his house runs out of any drinkable form of alcohol. He switches it up because _why not?_ and he vaguely remembers something about the nearest grocery store's policy of not allowing alcohol purchases after 10:00 PM.

He doesn't think he's desperate enough to try a liquor store. He also doesn't think he could walk under that kind of fluorescent lighting without looking pale and bedraggled and presumably ready to rob the establishment.

So he sits at this bar and occasionally chats with the bartender in the form of short phrases like _another, please_ or, even more impressive, _what brands do you carry?_

He doesn't think he's an alcoholic. He just can't _sleep._

And he's so tired that he just doesn't quite feel like functioning.

Or perhaps he can't function and therefore he is so. very. tired.

* * *

He needs something to help him more effectively sleep.

Sometimes it helps to imagine an undisturbed partner beside him. There is something to be said about having another person's calm silhouette, rhythmic breathing, and solid weight beside him.

Sometimes that just further frustrates him.

When he does fall asleep, he dreams in fitful muted grays.

Very rarely, he wakes to the crescendo of his phone's jingle and then tries in vain to fall asleep again. Recapturing sleep is almost as imaginary as the residual bliss of a familiar companion.

He hits the snooze button and catches the tail end of the dream as it rapidly swirls down a drain in a mocking spiral.

He knows he should get up but never really wants to.

He can see the pity and (maybe?) concern twisting his editor's expression but she isn't scolding him so he must have finished his manuscript on time.

When that deadline was, he does not know.

* * *

In the softened darkness of the bar, a man breaches his peripheral and he manages his best polite expression.

He knows a smile is more appropriate but he is not about to attempt something he hasn't done in a while.

"Hello," the man says while standing by his side.

"Hi," he answers while wondering how haggard he looks on a scale of 1 to 10 and why this man would want to talk to him of all people.

The man takes a deep breath before asking, "Buy you a drink?"

Perhaps it isn't so much the content of the sentence that shocks him but more that someone has simply initiated conversation.

Tilting his head to one side to appraise the man from another angle, he thinks maybe this is what he has needed all along.

"Is that a pickup line?"

The taller man's eyes widen and embarrassment reflects along with the bar's scattered lighting.

"Because that's okay," he finishes with the unfamiliar sense of urgency.

They share a moment of silence, after which the man swallows and says, "Yeah. It was."

* * *

It really is just sex and he is pleasantly surprised to find that he enjoys himself.

Maybe he spends the entire night absorbing the heat off of the other's skin because suddenly he realizes his own typically chilly body temperature has become adequately warm.

And while he muses about how comfortable this all is, the man has him pressed firmly against the mattress and there doesn't seem to be any point of separation between their bodies.

It's nice and he may have murmured that beneath his breath when it isn't being swallowed by the man's lips that constantly seek his.

When his breathing turns ragged and abruptly catches, he arches into that man as much as that body above him allows and his mind goes delightfully empty.

He doesn't care so much post-orgasm because sleep finally has him wrapped in a drowsy haze and the sheets soothe his frayed nerves.

* * *

He wakes with an atypical alertness and the bedside clock reads 6:05 AM.

He can't remember the last time his head felt so clear. He glances around to take in his surroundings and feels burgeoning shame as his eyes travel past the discarded clothing and soiled towels (though the latter he doesn't recall). It is 6:11 AM when he ventures a look at the sleeping body next to him.

It is 6:13 AM when he realizes with a start that they slept turned away from one another.

At 6:19 AM, he stands dressed before the slumbering man and wonders if the other does this often because he feels slightly disgusted with himself.

6:21 AM and he is crouched beside that slumbering face and thinking the other looks much too young in the natural light streaming around the curtain edges.

He doesn't know when he leaves or arrives home but finds himself rotating a steaming cup of tea between his palms. He sees that the clock above his sink reads 7:28 AM and because it is still bright out, he feels a bit normal.

* * *

_**-tbc-**_


	2. Antimonium Sive Stibium

_**Author's Notes: **___Present-tense remains the bane of my existence.__

_**Warnings: **__Yaoi, slash, shounen-ai, etc. Inexplicit substance abuse and sex. Weird writing style._

_**Pairing:**__ Ike/Marth._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary:**__ Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Ambient

By SSBBSwords

* * *

He sifts through his inbox listlessly as if looking for a message. There are messages. Plenty, in fact. But he searches as if for a solution, a reason, or a destination.

The endless loading looks trivial and feels like sludge. He sits back and the chair digs into his shoulder blades. Enough for him to shift into the discomfort because it feels solid.

He stares into the list of contacts and subjects and dates and knows that there used to be a time that this activity felt productive.

The webpage automatically refreshes and there is a white line of bolded text.

_Re: manuscript _

He tries to care enough to read the message for comprehension but he doesn't and the only thing that sounds important is a day and time. He sets an alarm and idly wonders the contents of his previous attachment.

The document opens into a new window and is completely foreign despite his name heading every page corner.

He is later curled up in the smallest corner of his couch as if he cannot bear waste the energy extending into the remaining length of the furniture.

He reads with unintended interest and wonders where these words came from.

The story is strangely optimistic and the phrasing well-adjusted, and this just can't be him. Index finger marking his place, he flips through the stapled stack and blinks to clear his vision.

_Lowell 56, Lowell 57, Lowell 58…_

No change.

His eyes rove the text and he wants to rewrite something he doesn't remember writing in the first place. He reaches the end and knows this is just one installment out of many.

Panic seizes him and he can't breathe in its sudden, vice-like grip.

He is expected to continue this. Keep this up. Finish this.

And he doesn't want to.

He goes to bed dreading effort and failure.

He lies there drowning in skipping thoughts and transition sentences.

He rolls to one side and feels both hot and cold, which makes no sense because his thermostat is set to a refreshing seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.

He sits up because he knows he won't be falling asleep any time soon and, at the moment, doesn't really want or need to. But he supposes he should. For the sake of consistency and, well, _health._

His stomach aches faintly and he can't be sure it's because he didn't eat earlier or because he spent hours in a scrunched up position earlier that afternoon.

The printed manuscript sits innocently beside him on the table.

He turns on the bedside lamp and reaches for the bundle of paper because if he has to do this, he may as well do it to the best of his inadequate abilities.

* * *

He wishes that he drinks this wine because he particularly enjoys the flavors of blackberry and cassis with hints of cedar and chocolate, but then he would be lying.

He isn't exactly the lying type.

He wishes he could explain the aging, entry points, and palate range but all he knows is that the 14.2% alcohol content is satisfactory. For now.

He wishes he knew how to finish this sentence but it dangles incompletely on the page like a neglected child, and he wants to put it out of its misery.

He starts to think he needs something stronger but it is 10:11 PM and this scene is not going to finish itself.

This bottle, however, seems to be doing just fine.

So he continues to mindlessly type the letters on the keyboard that grow into words, into fragments, and into pictures across his computer screen.

He can no longer decipher such blurred lines but he knows the bottle is empty.

* * *

It is 8:36 PM one evening and he stands nonchalantly across an impressive array of alcohol in the grocery store.

No one really gives his purchases a second glance upon checkout. Wine is respectable.

He alternates between six different stores so no business realizes he is buying three bottles twice a week.

But now he finds himself eyeing a handle of rum with nearly 75% alcohol just because he _did_ need something stronger, but perhaps this would be overdoing it.

"You like Bacardi?"

The question arrives so casually and randomly, yet he pivots sharply toward the speaker as if caught red-handed. He swallows to dampen his dry throat. "Excuse me?"

"One fifty-one." The young man gestures to the amber liquid encased in glass.

"Haven't tried it," he answers truthfully, before adding upon afterthought, "Do you like it?"

"I use it in frosting." He receives a disarming smile and his own attempt is, at best, a stuttering echo.

"I don't understand."

"I can show you."

* * *

He learns that alcohol with such high alcohol content really does allow frosting to catch fire, which makes for eye-catching cake designs.

He also reacquaints himself with his distaste for such sweet things when he can taste all that remnant sugar as his tongue slides against the other man's.

As he gets unceremoniously shoved against a refrigerator (and retaliates because that genuinely _hurt_), he makes a mental note that 75% alcohol is not worth it when he simply hates the taste.

The man is pulling on his shirt and he knows he needs to take the initiative to rid it himself before it's ripped (and he really needs it intact for when he goes home).

He has a sick sense of accomplishment when he is the one still awake at 2:16 AM and cleaning himself up in the guy's bathroom.

As he sees himself out, he passes by the kitchen and the moonlit glint of the amber liquid that started this all catches his eye.

He takes the Bacardi 151 home with him.

* * *

_**-tbc-**_


	3. Abyssus

_**Author's Notes:**__ And…_

_**Warnings:**__ Yaoi, slash, shounen-ai, etc. Inexplicit substance abuse and sex. Weird writing style. Un-beta'd._

_**Pairing:**__ Ike/Marth._

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary: **__Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Ambient

By SSBBSwords

* * *

He can tolerate the insomnia with sufficient dignity to a certain point. He can lie there in faux meditation or alternate sides like a seasoned sleeper. Thirty minutes of staring wide-eyed into the dark is fine and, frankly, expected. He starts getting upset around ninety minutes in.

Tonight seems especially unpleasant. He is so sleep-deprived that there is no comfortable position. His eyes feel tight and his head even tighter. He has a pounding headache, which is stemming from the twin pulse-points above his ears. The tendons running parallel down his neck ache fierce enough to start an internal debate on taking some pain relievers.

His fingers dig into the tender areas and accomplish more distraction than relief. He doesn't know what makes him feel worse: the physical pain or the mental anguish. Then again, he is just so fortunate that one fuels the other in an endless cycle.

He wants to break something when he remembers pain medications should not be used if alcohol is regularly consumed.

* * *

It is 11:48 PM and he parks in the spot farthest from the only car present in the small five-vehicle lot in front of the liquor store. He doesn't know if he is trembling because it has come to this or because he imagines the shop interior to be as seedy as the exterior.

When he enters with the trepidation of a guilty party, the cashier's gaze not only automatically falls on his lonesome figure but sharpens with focused suspicion. He wants to duck into an aisle to hide but the shelves of alcohol remain at chest-height so there is no refuge. As he slowly wanders an adjacent wall of refrigerated beverages, he is overly-aware that the young man behind the front counter straightens from a slouch. He has zero interest in this section of beer that he stands before and his thoughts instead curl possessively around the cashier.

He glances toward the guy, who stares back unabashedly. The cashier's eyes are bright and appearance boyish, and he almost evaluates the guy as some part-timing teenager before he realizes this is a _liquor _store and employees must be at least 21 to sell alcohol.

He is meandering from the wall into the aisles when his attention is abruptly pulled away from contemplating purchasing scotch by the young man's even statement. "You look tired."

The store is so compact that there is no potential for misdirected or misheard words, and with no cards to play, he matches the other's conversational tone perfectly and replies, "I am." His hand closes around a dark container and he cradles it in his hands to absently read the label just so he doesn't have to maintain polite eye contact.

"Can I help you find anything?" The employee asks.

He immediately wants to say _no_, but he has been feeling like a deer in the headlights this entire time so he says, "Yes," and then berates himself for the reckless answer. He doesn't know what he wants and he is hesitant to admit that aloud. "I need," he pauses (_to sleep_. f_orget_. _disappear),_ "something to help me relax."

His warped description gets him a raised eyebrow and amused smirk from the young man at the counter. "Well, you aren't too lost then."

He realizes belatedly that he rather likes this guy because he sort of finds that smile sexy and that quip charming so he replaces what he was holding onto the shelf and returns the other's stare. "Recommend me something."

The change in the young man's body language is terribly conspicuous and he bears witness to the classic _Christmas-came-early_ reaction. "My shift ends in about ten minutes."

He nearly smiles himself, but his facial muscles just don't cooperate. He isn't sure how this works, so he shrugs and responds just as vaguely, "Fine." His conscience has yet to catch up with his mouth, so he goes outside to wait amongst more forgiving shadows.

* * *

He ends up at the young man's apartment and he can't help but investigate the layout a bit because the last thing he wants is to run into roommates when he leaves. He peers around each corner and tries to gauge doorways as closets or second bedrooms.

The other's casual baritone rescinds down the opposite hallway and he pays no attention in lieu of trying an ambiguous knob. Closet. No roommates then?

Seconds tick by before he realizes the guy had said something about changing.

He walks into the bedroom just as the taller man pulls on a T-shirt. The drab uniform drapes lopsidedly off a chair.

"Why did you," _put clothes back on, _"change?" He asks with genuine curiosity as he approaches and toys with the hem of the shirt in question.

"I thought we agreed the polo was an atrocity," the guy replies with faint amusement. Larger, warmer hands close around his fingers that are entwined in the fabric. His grip remains immobile as if he waits for permission to continue.

They are pressed vertically against each other and he looks up at that handsome face and thinks if this is what real couples do, he has been missing out. He almost feels ashamed for wanting to strip the guy and get on with what he came here for. _Almost._

He gives a firm tug like a reminder, to which the young man responds by sliding hands along his forearms before backing up slightly and gently undoing his hold. There is a horrifying moment as rejection courses sharply through his entire body, but then the guy simply removes the T-shirt a heartbeat later.

Tousled head reappearing from beneath the cloth, the man plainly states, "So we're doing this."

He hears nothing but a green light in that and quickly closes the distance between them. "Please."

* * *

**-tbc-**


	4. Addictionem

_**Author's Notes:**__ Still blocked but trying not to be._

_**Warnings:**__ Homosexuality. Substance abuse and sex. Weird writing style. Un-beta'd._

_**Pairing:**__ Ike/Marth._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary:**__ Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Ambient

By SSBBSwords

* * *

He wakes with his face molded into a pillow and a light comforter curving halfway to his wayward bangs. He is groggy enough to want to bury deeper into the covers so he attempts to do just that by turning beneath the blanket. He feels an unfamiliar twinge and soreness that suddenly reminds him just where he might be. Or not be.

He never actually intends to fall asleep or stay over. Nervously, he slowly maneuvers the comforter away and carefully props himself up on an elbow, hoping his movements are subtle enough not to disturb his bedmate.

The other side of the bed is empty. In fact, after the surprise melts away, he realizes he is positioned straight down the middle of the mattress and vaguely has to wonder where (and how) the young man from last night slept if he had taken up so much space.

He sits up gingerly and arranges the blanket neatly around his naked hips. Surveying the room, he notes his clothes folded in a lopsided pile on the desk. The polo still hangs abandoned on the chair and a corner of his mouth twitches.

The analog clock on the bedside table reads about 10:28 AM and his heart drops in shock.

He finds his cell phone cushioned on top of his clothes and he wonders when it had fallen out but ignores everything in order to double-check the time. It truly is about an hour and half from noon and he _still _cannot believe his body allowed him to sleep this long (and well).

He goes through the motions of showering and dressing mechanically, during which he sweeps a stray piece of lined paper from the desk. He picks it up to replace it but his eyes focus on the haphazardly-formed letters scrawled in permanent marker.

"_Had to leave for class. Stay if you want. Lock the door if not."_

Strangely enough, he wants to crawl back into bed again but he leaves the note behind and makes sure the locked apartment door is firmly closed behind him upon exit.

* * *

He realizes an hour too late that he never got around to purchasing liquor the other night. He pushes away from his computer screen for a moment to contemplate this issue. He is just getting a good flow of text going and does not plan to make attempts to sleep tonight, but something in him craves the strange bite and subtle burn of alcohol. The option of returning to the liquor store is automatically trashed because that is one encounter he did not want to repeat.

He could not allow that to ever happen again if all he is left with is a dreary deluge of derailed thoughts.

As his momentum for writing grinds to a stop, he decides to visit the bar for a drink—just one. Just so he can get his mind back on track.

He settles at the counter with a dry stout because he likes to imagine the man from that night likes beer over wine and coffee over tea. The liquid turns bitter when he realizes his mind just returned to memories of the other night. He has never been this distracted before and it's a maddening sensation. He wonders about every aspect of the individual without coming to any fulfilling conclusions. He can't help but scold himself for not perusing the contents of the guy's apartment before departure if he was just going to spend exorbitant amounts of time cycling through trivial, unanswered questions.

His reverie is shaken when someone sits next to him at the counter. They exchange one, two glances at each other and he is overcome with uneasiness that this newcomer is going to make him a proposition in a few minutes. A wave of anxiety washes through his core because he did not come here for this (_did _he? he didn't.) and he has not even an inkling of interest.

Knowing he has had a terrible track record with things like this, he removes himself from the situation as naturally as possible. He certainly doesn't want the stranger to be offended; perhaps he manages to come off as simply leaving due to work obligations in the morning. He tucks cash beneath his half-empty drink and returns home.

* * *

He lies in bed because he is tired but his mind works like a computer on algorithms. Yet all the calculated answers are wrong and all he wants is to fall asleep without the foreplay of aching frustration. So he tries something new. He lets his mind drift back to his last night of bliss and gratification and his hand follows that path right down his side, around his hip, and beneath the elastic of his sleepwear.

He wishes he knew the other's name because he wants to be able to use it in his fantasy but unfortunately, that is just something he has to do without. He supposes he shouldn't consider this a sexual fantasy if it is based off of previous experience.

His clothes are a complete hindrance so he shoves the offending material away so he can get better leverage. He grips himself tightly because he likes to think that's how he felt around the man's erection. Even with his eyes closed, he knows his body reacts in certain ways when nerves alight with arousal. His head tilts, his breathing hikes, and his hips begin to twist and rock in tandem with his hand once sufficiently lubricated. He wets his lips because he knows exactly how that changes the other's expression, causes pupil dilation, and induces an almost uncontrollable forward thrust. His outward sigh is reduced to a stutter.

His eyes open and it takes a moment for his sight to focus on the ceiling. This isn't working like he thought it would. He releases himself long enough to catch his breath and reassess his strategy. It takes longer to realize the solution but he isn't about to blame himself for slow thinking when all his blood is concentrated elsewhere.

He re-slicks his hand, less his palm and more his fingers, and tries again with improved success. When he comes, he comes with an intensity that rivals the actual act, followed by a haze of contentment and misery. He, however, falls asleep within the minute he finishes.

In the other room, his phone pings a singular text alert.

_**Ike**__: Thinking of you._

* * *

_**-tbc-**_


	5. Activus

_**Author's Notes:**__ Are you surprised? I am._

_**Warnings:**__ Homosexuality, substance abuse, sex, and Swords' Unbeta'd Present-Tense of Doom ©._

_**Pairing:**__ Ike/Marth._

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary:**__ Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Ambient

By SSBBSwords

* * *

He doesn't see the message until he is fumbling to turn off his phone's chiming alarm early one morning. He needs to meet with his editor in an hour but what is this terribly ambiguous text? When did telemarketers stop making calls and start sending texts?

As he changes into a sweater paired with slacks, he muses at his inability to calculate how long it's been since he last looked at his phone. It requires knowing today's date, which he obviously doesn't, but he's so accustomed to this drifting numbness to time that he doesn't even care.

Upon reaching the publishing office, he takes a seat and idly watches the receptionist answer the phone. He catches the emboldened numbers off a wall calendar and can finally make some comparison to the timestamp on his mobile's touchscreen.

Four days. He supposes a normal individual would be alarmed upon discovering such a long-missed message, but social rules didn't apply to spam.

His mind wanders to when he could next pay visit to the grocery store or whether or not he remembered to do laundry when he suddenly recalls the title '_Ike'_ and he pulls out his phone to study the text again.

Since when did anonymous messages come with attached names?

"Marth." His editor startles him out of his incomplete revelation, and with a mental shrug, he tucks the mobile device away to be forgotten until the next serendipitous moment.

* * *

He stands across the towering shelves of wine while leisurely reading the description of the bottle supported within his hands. His joints ache and he wonders if he should take that as an omen to cut back.

He wonders about a lot of things but to no avail, as the triviality of his thoughts correlate heavily to quotidian routine. He gently places three bottles into the plastic basket slung painfully at the crook of his arm and briefly considers going to a doctor. The idea dissipates like wafted smoke.

Someone as young as that liquor store clerk must drink, right? No, that's not necessarily true. That person looked—

He grips the handles with his dominant hand and wishes liquid and glass weren't so heavy. _–like someone who could bear a lot of weight._

He halts in his steps between the produce and dairy aisles. He knows the answer to his particular preoccupation because he has had that experience and—

Oh. What are the chances that he could have another night like that? Because while he can work with his fingers just fine, the oddly frequent chore is just a weak mimic of the authentic act. He finds everything distilling to a point of concentrated monotony.

And it is right around the bakery section that he realizes his phone must have never fallen out in the first place that night. Yet it had greeted him so innocently on top of his clothes the next morning.

Setting the basket down by his feet, he opens the forlorn text message and the type box sits expectantly blank.

'_Who is this?'_ he taps out and sends before heading to the checkout lines.

* * *

It is a quarter to midnight and he is on his third glass and twenty-ninth page when he hears a foreign beep across the room. It is both the alien tone and manifesting dehydration that breaks his momentum.

Migrating to the kitchen sink, he listens to the grainy sound quality of water rushing through metallic piping and into a cup as he unlocks his mobile, only to come face to face with a text conversation under the heading '_Ike.'_ To have a dialogue built and stored out of alternating speech bubbles in a remote device is… strange.

"_You didn't want to know," _reads the impersonal font restricted to the left side of the screen.

It is the past tense and allusion to a direct command he had once given that young man that causes his breath to catch. So his phone _had_ been confiscated long enough for the clerk to enter a name and number as a contact.

As if cued, another text pops up: _I'd still tell you._

Water runs over the edge of his glass and a third of the liquid sloshes out further when he uses the same hand to shut off the faucet.

"_If you want,"_ is added as an afterthought.

The influx of messages begs for attention, and recollection of the other's willingness to please comes unbidden with an unrivaled amount of ancillary examples. A flush overtakes his body. He _does_ want an encore of the previous encounter but he still doesn't want to be any more involved with such a distraction.

Releasing his bottom lip from betwixt his teeth and having to wipe his wet hand on a dish towel, he types: _I want something else._

* * *

He doesn't expect the younger one to fall silent first. Or even for two whole days. He stops to contemplate the surreal rarity of his tracking the days since a last (however sparse) exchange.

When he next receives a notification, he is locked in a mature staring contest with a package of over-the-counter sleep aid. He surprises himself with a relieved exhale, which is followed by a mortified cough. He knows he can't consume this product, but he nonetheless can't help entertain the risk.

"_Okay,"_ states the simple text.

At such a response, he can't be sure the other understands what he had been implying, and even if _'Ike'_ did, shouldn't the reply be something in the deprecating lines of "Figures" or "I know you do."

_Okay?_ The feeling rolling in his stomach is akin to fluttering and with another glance at the drugs on his desk, he recklessly sends: _Now._

He drinks water to avoid holding his breath for the length of five minutes before he receives another incredibly short message: _Okay._

He nearly drops the glass. Is this for real? His mind screams no, but his body lurches toward his room to shower and change clothes, and he knows this is going to end badly. Badly like self-served disappointment and humiliation and shattered fantasies.

He knows exactly where the other's apartment building is, but can't bring himself to ask for a room or number or code to be let into the complex. He finds the young man loitering outside the lobby.

Appearing genuinely bewildered at his approach, the other offers as an excuse, "I thought you were kidding."

"No, you didn't," he says, tilting his head up and fisting the other's shirt around the waist to bring them closer together.

Wrapping a hand around his hip and trailing another along his jawline, the taller man echoes agreement between stinted breathing, "No. I didn't."

* * *

_**-tbc-**_


End file.
